


Peter Parker Picked a Pack of Panic Attacks

by diogenesdarling



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Man - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter Parker - Freeform, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 08:09:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diogenesdarling/pseuds/diogenesdarling
Summary: “In, one…two…three…four…out, four…three…two…one.”“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.”“Well, kid, seeing as you couldn’t breathe or sit up on your own a minute ago, I think you have very little room to talk. But now that you can, would you mind explaining to me what the hell is going on?”A series of (somewhat related) one-and-two-shots based off of Spider-Man: Homecoming in which severe anxiety from past and current experiences finds Peter in unsettling territories.





	1. If New York Doesn't Sleep Then Neither Will I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first AO3 story, I hope you all enjoy. I've been obsessing over this move for days and felt it was high time I joined in the community, since I've been reading all the fics like crazy. Let me know what you think!

Peter Parker crept into his own bedroom through the apartment window at exactly 2:13 am — seventy-three minutes after curfew. He silently slid the window closed behind him, peeled off his sweaty Spider-Man suit, tossed it into its case, pulled on pajamas, and accidentally kicked the can of WD-40 sitting on the floor. With a clatter it flew into the leg of the bed frame, its use for muting the squeaky window track wasted forever. 

Peter dove into bed, rolled to face the door, and hastily spread his comforter haphazardly across his legs. The moment 2:16 crept into the blue light of the alarm clock, the door handle twisted. His eyes slid closed and his heart jumped into his throat as his Aunt May entered the room, switching the overhead light on immediately.

“Wh…what? May, is that you?” Peter sat up slowly, running a hand over his face.

“Cut the crap, please, Peter. I’ve been awake this entire time, waiting for you to waltz back in here. What did we say about curfew?”

“That you’re serious about it,” he mumbled, omitting the much-threatened part of only having access to his suit during daylight hours.

“You’re damn right I’m serious. Do you know how worried I’ve been? I was going to give you until 2:30 before I caused I scene but I was this close to just—” 

May’s voice suddenly died off. 

“Peter, what is that?”

“What’s what?”

“That mark on your shirt, that blood stain on your chest. Lie down right now.” May rushed toward the bed, pushing on Peter’s forehead until he was staring straight up at her, confused. 

“What are you talking about? I’m not bleeding.” With his pajama top suddenly bunched to his collarbone and May’s hands pulling at his skin, Peter lifted his head to look at his chest. A gash, two or three inches long, stretched on the left side of his ribcage from the bottom of his sternum. Red blotches stained the wrinkles of his white shirt, and suddenly May was slamming his head back down on the bed and standing to run to the bathroom for the first aid kit.

“I have one here, May, under the bed,” he announced, and instantly regretted stating. 

A quick, reproachful look was sent to him before his aunt knelt down and fished a white plastic case from beneath the bed. 

“How did this happen?” May asked as gathered some disinfectant and butterfly clips from the kit.

The long moment that followed brought her gaze to Peter’s. May raised her eyebrows and tucked her hair behind one ear before focusing again on cleaning the cut, a sign that she was waiting for an answer and would not accept silence. 

“I, um,” Peter swallowed nervously. “I don’t know how it happened.”

“Don’t give me that, I know you know.”

“Honestly! I didn’t know I was even bleeding, I thought I was just sweating a lot. It’s hot out tonight. People get mad when it’s hot; a lot of stuff goes down on nights like this, you know? I couldn’t just walk away when things were happening and a bunch, I mean a whole bunch, of things were happening and most crimes that happen at night happen after midnight so I had to stay later. I swear, May, I was being safe. I was being really cautious. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle on my own, I made it home safe, I really was being—“

“I’m going to stop you right there. First, take a breath. Second, I don’t think ‘making it home safe’ counts if you were about to fall asleep with a gaping wound. Don’t you feel this at all?”

“Not really.” Come to think of it, that was strange.

“Ok. That’s a problem,” May muttered. The soft rub of a bandage being securely stuck onto his skin made Peter pause.

“Well, I can feel you and the bandages. I just can’t feel any pain, I guess. I should heal by the time I wake up, anyway.”

May sat back on her heels and reached out to brush his hair back. 

“I’m not comfortable with leaving this cut alone, ok? Even for a few hours. We don’t know how you got it, which worries me on a couple different levels. We need to have a doctor’s opinion.”

Peter snorted, which earned him yet another glare. He sobered his expression.

“There’s not any doctor that I know of who will know what to do with me. I’d have to tell them my secret, and even then, they won’t have anything to say since they’re not familiar with radioactive spiders. As far as I’m aware.” The final sarcasm died on Peter’s lips as he spoke.

A long, long sigh escaped May as she rested her chin down, arms crossed. “Then we’ll have to find a doctor you don’t know of. Where’s your phone, we need to call Stark.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide, he immediately bolted upright. “No, no, no, please do not call Mr. Stark. He doesn’t need to be bothered with this, it isn’t an issue! I promise I’ll be fine in a few hours, it’s not even bleeding that badly anymore, please don’t call.” May grabbed the pillow and bunched it in half, easing Peter back onto it as he pleaded. 

“Listen. Peter, stop. Listen. I’m not trying to punish you. I’ll do that later. Right now I want to make sure you’re alright, and the fact that you don’t know how this happened is really concerning. We need to figure out if you have a head injury, or if this is going to cause some sort of infection, or who knows what. I’m not going to leave this, ok? That’s the final word.” 

May’s stern words mixed with her tired voice and soft eyes silenced Peter. He nodded, then told her where to find his phone in his backpack and convinced her to call Happy instead.

Peter let his eyes close for another moment as she dialed the number. He was more tired than he had realized, and his eyes burned pleasantly for a moment as his shoulders melted into the mattress.

How did he get that cut? It didn’t look like a stab, it was a little too shallow. But it was bleeding quite a lot even after he got home, so it had to be pretty recent. Where had he just come from? Peter was more than a little alarmed that he couldn’t place his night’s events into chronological order. Did he get hit in the head? There wasn’t one spot on his head that ached or had a lump, that he could tell, but apparently his nerves couldn’t really be relied on at the moment.

May’s strained but quiet voice lulled Peter for a few more moments, and he let himself ignore whatever she was telling Happy. He wouldn’t be able to stop her, anyway. Instead he focused on getting his story straight for whatever happened that night. He had been in Queens most of the time, tracking some petty thieves, running after a dog that got away from its owner in a busy area, stepping in and removing weapons from the many summer heat-induced arguments that were happening around town. He had seen a man walking into a 24-hour convenience store later in the night…

“—hear me? Peter! Open your eyes, honey. Come on, there we go. That’s it. Look at me, Peter.”

May’s face, unfocused and far too close to his own, filled the sights of Peter’s half-opened eyes. 

“Is he alright? May?” A distant and small voice was coming from somewhere near May’s head.

“Yeah, ok, he’s coming back. I’ll see you soon. Peter, can you hear me?” Something tilted his head up a bit, making him groan quietly.

“No, honey, I need an answer. Can you talk to me, Peter? Can you tell me where you are right now?” May’s voice sounded shriller than it usually did.

“I’mmm…m’home. Bedroom.”

“Good. That’s good. Alright. Stay still now, sweetie. Don’t move again.”

“Mhm.” The room was dark in all the corners, and May’s face was still looming largely in front of his own. He realized he was on the floor now, his back against the bed.

May moved to his side, pulling him to the right to rest his head against her shoulder. Her arm moved around to his left side and sat above his hip. Peter suddenly realized that his entire body was shaking, his breathing much faster than normal. His heart pounded against the middle of his chest and he kept unintentionally sticking his hand to where it rested on the knee of May’s pajama pants. 

“…happened?” he whispered. 

The soft sound of a kiss came from on top of his head and May’s free arm cupped his cheek; he could see her thumb slowly rubbing up and down in his peripheral vision.

“You closed your eyes for a second when I called Happy, and then a minute later you were basically hyperventilating and I couldn’t get your focus. Has that ever happened before?”

Never, Peter wanted to say. But the sudden flash back into reality from wherever his mind had been didn’t seem entirely unfamiliar. The thought that he didn’t know what had happened to the time, however long, that May had been on the phone and subsequently trying to get him to hear her felt wrong and strange. And it felt like what he had been trying to figure out when it happened.

“Peter, has this happened before?” His eyes snapped from where they had been absently gazing at the wheels of his desk chair.

“I dunno. Maybe? I can’t remember. I—” He stopped to take a few gulps of air. “Whatever jus’ happened must’ve…earlier.” A moment of tense silence allowed May to take this in.

“…‘n I sorta can’t feel anything now.” That sentence, with its bit of a slur, moved May immediately from where she sat to crouching directly in front of him again.

“What do you mean, you can’t feel anything?” Without her next to him Peter sagged a little to the side.

“Can’ feel an..thin’. But heart’s beating reeally hard. Wha’s going’n?” May was tilting even more in Peter’s view, and he didn’t think his mouth would move anymore. His eardrums were getting louder and louder in his head.

May gently grabbed him under the arms and pulled him back up to the bed without much trouble, while still eyeing his wound. Peter’s knees refused to support him. She grabbed his ankles and pulled them up, putting him back with his head on the folded pillow. She sat next to his side and leaned over, looking directly down to his glazed eyes.

“Ok, don’t worry. We’ve got someone coming to help right now. They’ll be here any minute.” She pulled his hand into hers and onto her lap where he could see it and kept running her fingers through his hair. 

“Deep breaths, Peter. I don’t know what’s going on anymore than you do, but we’ll figure it out. It’s ok, just take nice, deep breaths.”

Peter screwed his eyes shut and tried to listen to every bit of May’s voice, but his body was starting to buzz. The numbness of the last few minutes felt like it was being drowned out by ice water. Every breath hurt. Suddenly the cut on his chest came alive and his back arched, more out of surprise than actual pain. A hand was on his shoulder, on his stomach, pushing him down. He pushed back. He could feel his hands sticking to the blanket, then his feet, and everything was too connected to him. There was too much. May’s voice didn’t sound like her anymore, and the drumming, thrumming, pounding in his ears and heart and up and down his spine were telling him to get out, get away, run while you can and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t move.


	2. What Happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the backstory/aftermath for Chapter 1 -- this isn't in the same vein as I was hoping to stay with every chapter (this one's more of Aunt May's perspective than anything else, and sort of long) but the next chapter will be in one-shot form! Thanks for reading!

The sun was just beginning to creep into Peter’s window when he finally got to sleep. Another harried call to Happy from Aunt May, a round of vomiting into the wastebasket while May held Peter upright, and the eventual arrival of a team of specialized paramedics had kept the remainder of their night eventful. They had given him oxygen, a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and a muscle relaxant that didn't work for very long. Even though they were Stark's medics, trained for care and keeping of superhumans, no one was quite familiar with Peter's specific condition yet. The diagnosis was acute anxiety; with a promise from May that she would seek out a prescription medication (if needed) and a therapist for Peter, there was no need for hospitalization. The cut on his chest had healed seamlessly by morning, but it took a few hundred circles rubbed onto Peter’s back by May before his breathing evened out and his eyes slid shut at last. 

 

Happy had contacted Tony Stark, who had in turn sent May a link to the monitoring video recorded by the Spider-Man suit, along with a message.

 

“We’ll be by soon, here’s what happened.”

 

She grabbed her phone as soon as Peter fell asleep and walked out into the living room to watch the footage. She switched the news on the television to see if she could cross-reference Peter’s escapades with any disasters in the city.

 

Most of the evening’s video consisted of swinging from buildings, resolving a few altercations, and little things like securing a clothesline outside of a balcony for an older woman. May cringed at the heights at which Peter tended to travel — seeing everything from his perspective was enough to make her dizzy. As the clock in the corner of the video went later and later, May became increasingly impatient to see what had happened that was so drastic it was sending Peter into spirals of panic. The news had not shown anything out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until the video read 12:35 a.m. that she finally found what she was looking for.

 

The body camera showed a bodega across a narrow street that was apparently open all night. The only other person on the block, a man wearing a dark jacket, entered with a sharp turn. The lights were glaring fluorescent white and a man sat at the register, tapping on the counter and staring at the unpacked stock boxes stacked next to him. Peter suddenly stopped walking and May heard him whisper to himself.

 

“…How is he wearing that right now? I’m dying in this thing and here this guy’s walking around in the heat wearing a — oh.”

 

_Of course_ , thought May. _Of course he’s right where he shouldn’t be._ She watched the “customer” pull a gun on the cashier from the inside of his jacket, watched the bodega grow larger in the camera’s view, watched Peter run into the middle of an armed robbery and grab the pistol with his webs to throw it out of reach. Her eyes grew wide and frozen as she followed the frantic sway of the video, images of the floor and the ceiling and the terrified cashier all blurring together as Peter started fighting the robber hand-to-hand. And suddenly, she saw the glint of a knife. 

 

May’s hand went to her mouth while the footage followed every move of the knife and Peter’s voice tried to reason with the robber. He instructed the AI to call the police and yelled at the cashier to leave the building, but the fighting was happening directly in front of the one exit left from behind the register; the boxes blocked the other way out. When Peter realized this, he told the cashier to crouch down behind the counter and wait for the police. 

 

The robber, who was at least eighty pounds heavier than Peter and obviously an experienced fighter, was suddenly filling the lens with a wild and angry face. May yelped in surprise in time with Peter’s own gasp in the video and clamped her hand closer around her mouth to drown the sound. Peter again tracked the knife as it sped toward his chest and ducked backward just before a loud bang emitted from the speaker of May’s phone. She stared at the screen in shock as Peter watched his attacker fall to the ground, a bullet wound above his right cheek. A mess of blood and other things May didn’t want to think about was staining the shelf on the left, which Peter stared at before turning slowly to see the cashier, still with both hands on the pistol, eyes staring straight at where the robber had been standing. 

 

“Why did you do that?!” Peter yelled. “I was just going to web him up and wait for the police to get him! You didn’t have to kill him!” Each sentence grew more loud and piercing as he spoke.

 

The cashier shifted his eyes to look at Peter. Then he looked down at the dead man, the blood slowly pooling on the graying linoleum. Sirens started roaring in the background. 

 

“He stabbed you.” The statement was so quiet May barely heard it. 

 

“No, he didn’t. He was trying to, but he didn’t!”

 

“Yes, you’re bleeding.” The man looked at Peter’s chest with an empty confusion.

 

May saw the bright red of Peter’s suit and watched as he gingerly pulled back the slit material to reveal the cut. 

 

“Oh. He didn’t stab me, man, he grazed me. It’s superficial, I swear. I can’t even feel it.”

 

The sirens were getting closer and the wall behind the counter was reflecting the faint blue lights of incoming cruisers. The cashier looked at Peter’s face again, and then back to the dead robber, who was staring with flat eyes into the aisle across from them. 

 

“You know I killed him,” the cashier suddenly said.

 

Peter didn’t respond.

 

“You’re going to tell the police, aren’t you? You’re going to tell them I killed him, dammit!” Now the cashier turned directly to Peter. The camera was focused on the gun still in his hands. 

 

“I don’t think you should freak out about it, they’ll understand. They’ll make sure the judge knows that this was self-defense.” Peter’s voice cracked, his breathing was ragged in the speakers.

 

“Judge?” The cashier tilted his head, looked again at the robber, and adjusted his grip on the gun. “They’re not gonna let me off for this. I know they won’t.” May saw his expression turn in a way she couldn’t identify.

 

“Listen, Spider-Man, you shouldn’t have come here. He should've just robbed me and left! YOU did this, you son of a bitch! If you hadn’t been here I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger!”

 

May was looking at the barrel of the gun. Peter’s breathing paused.

 

“Put the gun down, man. It’s gonna be ok, just put the gun down.”

 

Police officers were yelling from outside the bodega.The cashier shook his head.

 

“They’re gonna see you if you shoot me,” Peter continued. “They will know it’s you. They’ll book you for murder for sure if you kill me, you know that. Don’t do it.” His voice grew very low in the last sentence.

 

“ _You_ did this, Spider-Man. Not me. I didn’t ask for help. You ruined my life by coming in here.” The cashier was speaking fast, harried, desperate. The pistol lowered and police slammed car doors shut.

 

Before Peter could react, before he could leap forward, the cashier suddenly swung the robber’s pistol around, pointed it at his own head, and pulled the trigger.

 

“What?! What?!” May’s heart broke when she heard Peter’s terrified voice. “Why’d he do that? What was he — why’d he do that?!” 

 

His voice was drowned in the commotion of the police and Peter stood still, watching the cashier crash into the counter, biting his tongue, before he fell to the ground. 

 

Footsteps in the entryway caused Peter to turn around to see officers running in. He ran himself, yelling to the police as he made his way to the back exit that the cashier had been robbed, shot the robber, and then shot himself. Peter ran into an alleyway, swung to the nearest tall building, and sat down heavily on the cement.

 

“What just happened? What the hell just happened?” He kept his eyes fixed on the glaring police lights below and suddenly reached toward his head and seemed to fold up the bottom of his mask. He immediately began retching and pulled the mask completely off a moment later. The video stopped.

 

At about 2 a.m. the feed came alive again, and it showed Peter running off the top of the same building and making his way home. His movements were sloppier than they had been earlier in the evening, and several times he missed where he was aiming with his webs and had to latch on to something else at the last second. May closed her eyes as the footage showed their apartment building.

 

She sat without moving for several minutes. The news was still playing quietly and the anchor’s meaningless words were swirling in May’s head with what she’d heard in the video.

 

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts. She soundlessly walked to answer it, looking through the peephole at Tony Stark, Happy directly behind him.

 

“Hi, come in, come in. Thanks so much for coming all the way out here,” May said with a distant voice.

 

“How’s the kid?” Tony asked.

 

“He’s sleeping, finally. Took him a long time to calm down since we last talked.”

 

“You saw the footage?”

 

“Yeah, I just finished watching it. I — I don’t know what to say.”

 

“Well, I’ll have to send it in to the NYPD so they don’t try to drag him into anything out of suspicion. I think it pretty fully explains why he was freaking out. I mean, he’s certainly seen worse, but — don’t look at me like that, you know he has — but things aren't usually as, I guess, personal as this. And I know about your…”

 

Tony trailed off when May met his eyes. He didn’t have to say it, they both knew. Uncle Ben didn’t need to be dragged into this situation anymore than the worst memories of him already almost certainly had.

 

May cleared her throat. “Yeah, I figured you might. Um, about the cut. And the paramedics. It's healed up now, it was fine. Thanks for sending help. I don’t want him going out again without talking to someone who can help him deal with all this. Do you have a contact or someone discreet who I could call?”

 

Happy pulled a notebook from his pocket and scribbled down some information. May set the page on the coffee table and they stood in silence.

 

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “I guess you didn’t really need to come all this way after all, we could’ve done this over the phone. Sorry about that.”

 

“No,” Tony said sharply, staring straight at her. “Or, no, don’t apologize. I wanted to come down here and check in with the kid. So did Happy.”

 

Happy grunted and twitched the corner of his mouth down.

 

"Did the medics say anything about the memory loss?"

"They said it wasn't out of the ordinary, especially for a young person. They said it might come back, those few hours, but that it's just his mind protecting himself. I'll have him talk to someone and make sure he's alright."

No one spoke for a few moments.

“Listen, May,” Tony started, “I appreciate you calling. I know you didn’t really have anyone else to call, but I wouldn’t have checked that footage if you hadn’t. I just, I think it’s…how do I want to say this?” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment.

 

“I never had someone who…knew. I mean, I have people. I do, but when I was getting started with all of…this…I saw some things. Things that made me want to go vomit on a rooftop. And I didn’t have anyone that understood. I wanted to come down and just check in.”

 

May nodded, lips tight, and pressed her fingers to her mouth as her face started to crumple. Tony looked at Happy for help. Happy shifted uncomfortably. 

 

“May? Are you ok?”

 

All three turned to see Peter, standing in the hallway in pajama bottoms with disheveled hair, no shirt, and a bandage still stuck to his chest. 

 

“You’re up! Here, come sit down, sweetie.” May regained her composure quickly and steered him to the sofa. Peter kept his eyes on the guests.

 

“You didn’t sleep very long.” Peter looked to his aunt, who was peering down at him with concern.

 

“Ya, I had a night— er, I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted sheepishly.

 

“What are you doing here, Mr. Stark?” He knew the answer, of course.

 

“Just checking up on ya, kid. Heard you got a tear in the suit.”

 

“Oh, um, yeah. I don’t know how it got there. Sorry.” 

 

“No apologies necessary. Wear and tear is expected in our line of work, believe it or not.”

 

Peter gave him a small smile, and Tony saw dark circles around his eyes and watched as he grabbed a glass of water from May with shaking hands.

 

“I have a meeting to get to, so I’m just going to grab the suit and we’ll be out of your hair.” The made-up excuse got Tony out of the living room and into Peter’s bedroom. The sheets on the bed were tangled and there was a blood-stained t-shirt on the floor next to an open first aid kit. The suit was in its case near the window.

 

By the time Tony returned to the living room, Peter was leaning back against May, his eyes sliding shut. Happy was leaving a few more numbers on the paper he had given her. The two men left a moment later and Peter sighed heavily.

 

“You ok?” May asked.

 

“Did you see the video? Did he see the video?” Peter replied, eyes closed.

 

“Ya, we did.”

 

“…Should I see it?”

 

“I don’t know. Certainly not right now. How are you feeling?”

 

Peter wasn’t sure how to answer that question. His chest felt tight, but not where the cut had been. His heart felt like it was trying to wring itself out, and his eyelids had never felt so heavy. But his brain was buzzing. There was something very wrong and alarming about not being able to remember something for which he was most certainly conscious, and he didn’t know how conscious he actually was in all the aftermath through the night.

 

“I’m alright, just need some more sleep. I don’t really want to think about it right now.”

 

May hugged him before getting up from her seat and helping him get comfortable on the couch. She spread a throw over him and lifted his feet onto her lap when she sat on the far cushion, then switched the news to something neither of them cared to pay attention to.

 

 

She figured there would be many, many more long nights to come, and waited for Peter to fall back asleep before calling the first number on the paper.


	3. The Guy in the Chair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the responses! Here's a one-shot that falls in line with the previous chapters, I hope you all enjoy. The chapter that the story summary is based on will be up within the next few days :)

If it had been anyone else, he would have turned back. 

 

But it was Ned, and Peter’s eyes were glued to his best friend’s body, laying prone on the shining wood floor of the school gym.

 

“Parker, turn around and pay attention!” The P.E. teacher impatiently swung his whistle lanyard around his finger in tight circles, ready to blow it given any chance.

 

“You hear me, Parker?” He yelled again.

 

Peter didn’t hear him. Ned was standing up now, catching his breath from his attempted dive for the volleyball, looking back at Peter in confusion. Peter threw a “You ok?” hand signal from his spot near the net; Ned nodded curtly from the back row.

 

_It’s just a game, it’s just a game, he just dove for the ball, it’s just a game_ , Peter tried to convince himself. But all he could really think was that Ned was hurt, someone had used his friend to get to Spider-Man, his Guy in the Chair was compromised, and he wasn’t getting up again. 

 

Peter looked at Ned for a moment longer to prove that he was, actually, standing upright and definitely alive. It was a moment too long, he realized, when a whistle blew shrilly next to his ear.

 

“You’re benched, Parker. Stop standing around, everyone else here is trying to play a game.” 

 

After the snickers from both sides of the net had died down and Peter was sitting on the bleachers, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands, he continued to keep an indirect eye on Ned. Every time the ball neared Ned’s corner of the court, the base of Peter’s skull started to tingle uncomfortably. _No, he’s ok. He’s fine. It’s literally just a game, no one’s trying to hurt anyone_. He glanced over at Flash, who was trying to trip one of his teammates when the teacher wasn’t looking so he could get the volley. _Maybe not everyone_ , Peter smirked.

 

He sat on the bleachers for the remaining six minutes of class, reminding himself at least twenty times that Ned was okay. He wanted to stand beside him, though, hear him talk. Peter was more than a little aware that he was freaking out over nothing, but he didn’t know how to stop and he didn’t particularly care.

 

After gym, on their way to Decathlon practice, Peter could feel Ned’s discomfort. 

 

“Are you sure you’re good, Peter? You seem a little jumpy.”

 

“Nah, I’m fine. That was a pretty sweet dive, speaking of jumping.” Peter inwardly grimaced at his own awkward transition. 

 

“…Thanks.” They walked in silence after that. 

 

As free period approached, just as with every period, the halls grew frantic. Lockers slammed, harried kids brushed by in both directions, and loud laughter and calls to friends swirled around. In the commotion, a girl flung her backpack out to throw it on her shoulders, right into Ned’s path. He didn’t have time or room to move, so the bag hit his arm. 

 

“Oh, whoops! Sorry!” She patted his shoulder quickly before tearing off down the hall.

“Dude! Are you okay?” Peter looked at Ned with wide eyes.

 

“Ya, of course I’m okay. She only had, like, a notebook in there.”

 

Peter tried to consider this. It wasn’t working. “Are — are you sure?”

 

“Yes? It…didn’t hurt at all.” Ned stared at Peter in confusion.

 

Peter swallowed hard. _Ned’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s—_

 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Ned’s harsh whisper cut through Peter’s thoughts. “We’re in the middle of the school, dude.”

 

“What?” Peter asked, eyes opening. _When did I close my eyes?_ His hands were fiddling with the straps on his backpack, and he felt like he’d just sprinted instead of walked to where they were standing.

 

“Maybe you should go home early, Peter. I can go with you, if you want. I’ll make up an excuse.”

 

“We have practice,” Peter said absently.

 

“Ya, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

 

Peter ran a hand over his face. “I’m fine. I’m totally fine.” He wanted everything to stop, though. It felt like every sound the school made was happening inside his head. A few doors where clicking shut when the bell rang, sending Peter reeling.

 

“Woah, woah, dude. It’s just the bell.” Ned reached an arm out to steady Peter.

 

“It’s not just— I know it is. That’s why.”

 

“Why what?” 

 

“Why I jumped. The bell, it’s…noisy. I can, uh, feel the noise, I guess. Are you sure you’re fine, Ned? Absolutely sure?” Peter’s forehead was creased in concern and discomfort and his chest heaved.

 

“Peter, honestly, I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me to make me not fine. I really think we should go to your house now.”

 

Peter’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he heard _and felt_ Ned’s do the same. Michelle was probably wondering where they were. 

 

“Let’s just go to practice. I’ll try to chill out, I swear.” _You’re Spider-Man and you should be able to control yourself._

 

“I dunno, dude.”

 

Peter started walking anyway. But Ned didn’t follow. Peter didn’t turn around after a few steps, but he could sense that Ned wasn’t making any move to follow him. _It’s because he can’t. There’s something wrong, he can’t walk!_ He tried to ignore his own thoughts, Ned was fine. _Five more steps before you look back. Don’t be ridiculous, you just saw him, he was talking to you ten seconds ago._

 

Peter turned around, and Ned was standing sideways in the hall, eyes shifting from Peter to the office at the far end of the hall.

“We should call your aunt. She can come pick you up.”

 

“I don’t need picked up!” Peter and Ned were both surprised by the anger in Peter’s voice. “I’m fine if you’re fine, let’s just go to practice!”

 

“Listen,” Ned hissed, speeding to where Peter stood, “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say this, ok, but May told me to keep an eye out for things like this. She called me and said that if you started freaking out that and breathing weird I was supposed to let her know and try to get you home, so that’s what I’m doing!” The harsh whisper grated on Peter’s ears.

 

Ned grabbed Peter’s arm and started guiding him down the hall to the office. Peter let out a small, strange noise, almost like a whine.

 

“…Ned…” 

 

Ned stopped. Peter’s eyes were screwed shut again, and his hands were going up to cover his ears. A few people lingering in the hall looked over at them warily. Ned put a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades and directed him into the restroom a few lockers down.

 

“Hey, take it easy.” Ned used a low voice as he fished his phone from his pocket.

 

The bathroom was empty, luckily, and Peter went straight for a sink and rested his hands on each side, elbows locked, and let his head hang down. 

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he said to the sink.

 

“It’s gonna be fine, dude. Just give it a few minutes,” Ned’s voice didn’t match the confidence of his words.

 

Peter stared at the silver faucet, his distorted reflection staring back. He had the strange realization, somehow, that he didn’t have any distinct thoughts. The only thing he could firmly grasp was that he couldn’t focus on one single idea, one sentence, one problem. He heard Ned’s voice speaking to May somewhere, but he couldn’t identify a direction. He couldn’t feel his fingertips, the tip of his nose buzzed. He didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed.

 

May’s voice was in his ear.

 

“Peter? Are you there, honey?” He nodded faintly.

 

“You have to talk, Peter, it’s a phone call,” said Ned’s voice. Peter didn’t know what that meant.

 

“I wanna go home,” he whispered.

 

“Home? Ya, sweetheart, I’m on my way to get you right now. We’ll bring you home, ok?”

 

He nodded again.

 

“May? Hey, ya, he heard you…” Ned took May’s voice away.

 

Peter’s stomach hurt and his knees began to shake. Ned wasn’t there. He was next to Peter and then he wasn’t. _He’s dead. He’s dead and it’s my fault._ Peter felt himself sliding toward the ground, and then an arm wrapped around his chest from behind.

 

“Woah, don’t fall! You’ll crack your head open.” Peter let out a tired groan in response. 

 

“He’s dead,” Peter muttered. “He’s dead.”

“What? Who?” The arm around him asked.

 

“He’s gone. Ned died.” Peter’s voice was small, terrified of itself. _How could you?! You let him die. Your best friend is gone and it’s your damn fault._

 

“Peter, look at me.” The arm let go and then grabbed his shoulder, turning him too fast. He gagged.

 

“Oh, crap. Come here, come here,” the arm was joined by another and both steered him to a stall, where he crashed onto his knees and threw up into the toilet.

 

A hand was on his forehead and another was on his back, and Ned’s voice was quiet and next to him.

 

“I’m not dead, I’m fine. I’ve been here the whole time, I swear.” A beat. “Nobody died, May said you’re just having a panic attack. She told me what to do, don’t worry. Uh…it’ll be over soon, and nobody’s dead.”

 

The acid taste of bile and the smell of cleaners mixed in Peter’s head with everything else. He felt dizzy, and disconnected, and his view of the toilet beneath him was spotted with black dots. _He’s not dead? He’s not dead. He’s here. Ned’s here._

 

Peter finally stopped throwing up, felt his nose burn from the inside, and a wad of toilet paper was in his hand. He was gasping for air. He eventually wiped the tissue across his mouth and something slowly moved him backward. The cool metal of the stall door felt so good against the back of his neck. He watched Ned pull the lever on the toilet and slide down to the floor, leaning against the wall the Peter’s right.

 

_That’s Ned, he’s moving. He’s alive._ Ned’s legs were folded up so there was room for the two of them in the tiny stall. There was a phone in Ned’s hand now and it suddenly lit up, and _May_ read across the top of the screen.

 

“Hey, it’s me….well, he almost kinda collapsed and then he started throwing up. He thought…” Ned looked at Peter. “Well, I can tell you more later…we’re still in the bathroom….I don’t know, I don’t think he can walk right now…” The conversation continued.

 

Peter let the door behind him support him completely while he stared at Ned with half-lidded eyes. He didn’t think any muscle in his body would move voluntarily and all he wanted to do was breathe. He was vaguely aware that his arms were sprawled onto the floor and across his abdomen and he could feel his entire body sweating.

 

He didn’t take his eyes off of Ned.

 

There was a knock from out in the hallway, and a woman’s voice. “I’m coming in!” The bathroom door swung open and the woman stood outside the stall.

 

“Peter Parker, are you in here?” She asked.

 

Peter made no move to reply.

 

“He is, and I’m with him! Ned Leeds, I mean. One second.”

 

Ned stood up and put a firm hand on Peter’s arm, then unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal the school nurse.

 

“Hello there,” she said sweetly, immediately crouching down and helping Ned support Peter. “I got a call from your aunt, Peter,” she continued, looking at Ned when Peter didn’t respond. “She said he’s had an anxiety attack?” The nurse asked quietly. Ned nodded.

 

“Okay. Hey Peter? We’re going to take you into my office, is that okay with you? Ned — that’s it, right? — Ned and I are going to help you walk down there. Class is still going, so no one will be watching. Does that sound good?”

 

Peter looked at her, blinked slowly, and whispered. “Okay.”

 

They helped him up, and Peter’s legs felt like they weren’t attached to his body. His arms were around their shoulders and the slowly made their way down the _really, really long_ hallway. The nurse had a cot in her office and handed Peter a Dixie cup of water when he sat down. He spilled it all over the knees of his jeans.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. Here, let’s try that again.” She handed him another cup, then guided it to his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he was thirsty.

 

Ned sat in the chair next to the cot and the nurse eased Peter down onto the pillow, laying on his side. His closed his eyes and tried to ignore the static running through every bit of his body.

 

Someone’s hand was rubbing Peter’s back softly, and a conversation was happening around him. _Must have fallen asleep._ He heard his favorite voice.

 

“May?” He mumbled, eyes still shut. 

 

“Hey, there you are. How ya doing? You wanna go home?” 

 

Peter nodded. He convinced himself to sit up and May stood and moved out of the way so he could put his feet on the ground.

 

“Don’t stand up yet, Peter.” It took him a moment to remember who the nurse was. He nodded again.

 

He looked around the room and saw Ned, still in the same spot as earlier. They stared at each other silently.

 

“So you said he does have a treatment plan in place, is that correct?” The nurse spoke to May very quietly.

 

“Yes he does, but it’s still pretty early in, we’re trying to figure it all out. He’s been talking to someone, though. A professional.”

 

The nurse nodded, marking something in a file. Peter didn’t want to sit up anymore.

 

“Can we,” he began, then cleared his throat, “Can we go home?”

 

“Sure, ya, let’s get you home. Ned, are you going to come with us?” May asked.

 

Peter looked at Ned with pleading eyes. 

 

“I’ll come, we have to keep working on our AT-AT model,” he said without breaking eye contact with Peter.

 

Peter slept in the car on the way home, barely stayed awake through dinner (and hardly ate), and then he and Ned watched a movie, which Peter also slept through. 

May and Ned talked quietly through most of the movie. He tried to explain what had happened, which he wasn’t sure of, and she filled him in on what was happening with Peter since the night he’d come home with no memory of where he’d been. She didn’t know how much Peter would want to be shared, but Ned seemed to understand with even limited information. She pulled him into a long hug before he went home that night, then came back to the living room and turned off the television. 

 

“Time to go to bed, honey,” she whispered to Peter, waking him up. 

 

“…Hm? Where’s Ned?”

 

“He had to go home, but he said he’ll come back tomorrow after school. I’m going to keep you here tomorrow, though, ok? I want you to rest.”

 

Peter nodded sleepily, then let May help him into his bed. May sat with him until he fell asleep, texting Happy when she got a message asking if everything was alright — Peter usually was out on patrol.


	4. Turn It Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, ok. This chapter turned out to be way long, but I think I'll keep it as it is. Here's the timeline-compliant one-shot with the scene from the description on the tin. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and I love getting to read the comments! You guys are making my summer classes a bit more bearable haha

The suit wasn’t really the problem. It fit well, it had amazing features, and Karen was…strangely comfortable to talk to. No, it wasn’t the suit that was the problem. Peter wouldn’t dream of being ungrateful enough to actually tell Mr. Stark that it was wrong, but — well, it wasn’t right.

 

When Mr. Stark had come in his room, right before he told Peter they were going to Germany, he had seen Peter’s first suit. Sweatshirt, tinted goggles, the whole deal. And he had made the new suit in time for the first fight with Cap. 

 

Now his suit had upgrades (since he had hacked it and Mr. Stark hadn’t made him regress back to full Training Wheels Protocol), he could shoot out all kinds of webs and get information through programs he could have only dreamt of designing on his own. He could get _so much_ information, more than he needed. Sometimes, more than he could take.

 

He was a little surprised, actually. Mr. Stark tended to brush off a lot of Peter’s comments in conversation with the quick banter he liked so much, but usually he really listened and would surprise Peter with incredibly accurate and personal (but still sharp) comments later on that showed just how much he really heard his young protégé. That first conversation in his room, though, when Mr. Stark had Captain America and all sorts of disasters and Avengers issues on his mind, and was just trying to convince Peter to join, must have been an anomaly. 

 

Peter remembered that day distinctly. How could he ever forget being personally approached by Iron Man himself? He remembered the ice in his veins when he saw the video of Spider-Man stopping a car from crashing into a bus and being asked if it was him. He remembered how it felt to finally explain to someone why he was being Spider-Man, the responsibility he felt. And he remembered saying that he kept his goggles dark because everything, all his senses, had been turned up to 11 for the past six months. He was sure that Mr. Stark remembered at least some of that day, too, but apparently not the last bit.

 

Peter was now on his way to a suit tune-up — Happy had flown down to accompany him back to Mr. Stark’s newest headquarters upstate. Peter did his chemistry homework the entire flight, just like he’d promised May. He found it hard to focus, though, because all he could think of was how he could explain to Mr. Stark what he wanted to say.

 

“It’s a great suit, Mr. Stark, it is!” He rehearsed to himself. “But there’s just one problem, there’s too much going on.” How would that sound? Stupid, that’s how. He was supposed to be able to handle falling planes and splitting ferries and alien technology and crime rings. He couldn’t tell Mr. Stark that he couldn’t take a little overstimulation, especially when the main cause of it was the tech that was supposed to make his job easier and safer. 

 

So, he kept trying to work on his homework until they arrived, hoping the right words would come at the right moment.

 

In Mr. Stark’s lab, Peter sat on a stool and bounced his leg up and down faster than should’ve been possible. Mr. Stark was late, Happy told him, in a meeting that could take a while. Don’t touch anything, please. Please.

 

Peter was left unsupervised (by actual eyes, sure, but he was sure that video surveillance was happening from every angle imaginable). He satisfied his curiosity by staring at all the tech that lined the walls, the Iron Man marks that were undeniably bursting with cool ideas, and the robots that occupied the center of most benches in the room. He tried to think about how everything worked and what systems Mr. Stark used, mostly so he wouldn’t have to think about how this was the first time he’d be seeing his de facto mentor since his weird breakdown on patrol a few weeks ago. 

 

That was another reason why Peter was wary about mentioning the problems he was having with the suit. He couldn’t very well say that he was experiencing sensory overload from a few images and sounds in the mask when he’d just flipped out and lost all control over a Spider-Man-related incident. Mr. Stark didn’t even know about the other day, when he’d thought Ned was dying just because of a stupid volleyball game. At least, Peter hoped he didn’t know. 

 

Therapy was helping; May had been adamant and persistent about his appointments, which Peter didn’t really mind. Everything was confidential, and the therapist recommended by Happy was allowed to know his secret identity. Talking really did help, and he was told what had happened that night, though he didn’t particularly want to watch the footage. 

 

He wasn’t better yet, of course. He didn’t know if he would be anytime soon. He wanted to continue going on patrol, which May hated, but he had a much earlier curfew for the next few weeks, and possibly months. 8 pm. Peter thought it was ridiculous, May thought it was still too late. He kept a bottle of medication in his backpack and a ziplock of pills inside his suit, next to his chest, so in an emergency he could rip of his mask and easily access something to calm him down until he could get home. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to try even one pill, but he felt better having them nearby.

 

Forty-five minutes passed before Mr. Stark strolled into the lab. By that point, Peter had walked around the room and closely scrutinized everything within arm’s reach without touching a thing. 

 

“Hey, Mr. Stark! Thanks for bringing me up here.” Peter smiled. He knew he looked nervous. Mr. Stark walked over to him and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

 

“‘Sup, kid? Ready to update that suit?”

 

Peter took his case from beside the stool and set it on the bench. He loved watching it open automatically. Mr. Stark spread the material flat, then took a few tools and started tearing it apart. 

 

“I’m thinking some updated SONAR, in case you decide to go swimming again,” he looked pointedly at Peter, “and maybe some webs with different time-sensitive properties, they’ll turn into cement after a few minutes, stuff like that. Gotta update Karen, too. Any thoughts?” 

 

Mr. Stark was already getting lost in his own world, and Peter thought this would be his only chance.

 

“Um, yeah, I was thinking that maybe — maybe there could be another function? Like in the mask?A sort of dial, or something,” he hoped his word choice wouldn’t go unnoticed.

Mr. Stark turned to look at him. “What do you mean, a dial? You know hardware’s usually not a great idea to add on for anything but absolute utility.”

 

“No, I know, I didn’t mean an actual dial. Like, maybe a function for Karen, if I could tell her to turn the view opacity up or down? Sometimes I can focus better if there’s not as much light getting in.”

 

Mr. Stark stared at him without speaking. Peter hated it. 

 

“Like you had with your old goggles?” 

 

Peter didn’t hate the stare as much. “Yeah, exactly.”

 

“So, Spinal Tap Protocol. Got it.” Mr. Stark turned back to the suit, leaning closely down over it.

 

Peter smirked, then leaned down next to the suit as close as he dared.

 

“Alright, Underoos, go grab a few things from the storage closet…”

 

They worked for hours, and Peter didn’t realize how late it was getting until May sent him a text.

 

_“Are you still with him?”_ It read.

 

_“Yup, still working.”_

 

_“When will you be back?”_

 

_“No idea, sorry. Probably won’t be for a while.”_

 

_“Text before your plane takes off, ok?”_

 

_“K. Thanks, May.”_

 

It was nearing midnight, Peter realized, and didn’t know how to tell Mr. Stark that he had an APUSH essay due in the morning that he hadn’t finished yet. Just then, Mr. Stark stood up from his spot where he’d been sitting, surrounded by screens on three sides.

 

“Alright, kid, try this on for size.” He held up the mask. Peter slid it on over his head and looked around the room.

 

“Hello, Peter,” said Karen.

 

“Hey, show me what you can do, Karen!” 

 

“Tell her to ‘turn it down,’” Mr. Stark said from behind him. 

 

“Ok. Karen, turn it down.”

 

Suddenly, all the bright lights of the lab turn into a soft, red-saturated glow. The sounds of robots moving back and forth and Mr. Stark crunching potato chips changed into distinct but muffled versions of themselves. Peter was still aware of everything around him, but his mind felt so at ease. He knew he’d fight better and with more awareness like this.

 

“Mr. Stark, this is fantastic! Thanks so much, I can’t wait to try this out on patrol!” He kept the mask on for a few minutes, testing it out, and mentioning any kinks in the system that he found while Mr. Stark listened, programming fixes in real time.

 

“Alright, I guess that’s it, then. The other features are practically foolproof, so we don’t need to test those right now. Just try to give them a run for your own benefit before you actually use them, ok?”

 

Peter nodded, still distracted by how nice it felt to have his ears and eyes just _calm_ for once.

 

“…Crap, it’s a school night, isn’t it? FRIDAY, call Happy in here, please. Tell him to get the spider boy back asap. Peter, throw me the mask, I need to sync Karen one more time.”

 

Peter grabbed the mask from the back of his head and peeled it off, uncovering his ears first, then his eyes. The contrast of the quiet, dim mask to the whirring, harsh lab caught him off guard. 

 

“Woah, ok,” he whispered, throwing a hand up to block his eyes. 

 

“You good?” Mr. Stark asked. His voice was so… _heavy_.

 

“Ya, I’m fine, here ya go,” Peter replied, still speaking barely above a whisper and keeping his hand over his face.

 

Mr. Stark took the mask and set it down, coming over to Peter. He hovered a hand above Peter’s arm, but Peter flinched back even without being touched.

 

Just then, Happy arrived. “Ready to go home?” 

 

“…Ya, sure…” Peter croaked out. He wanted to leave _now_ , but that meant getting on a plane. A plane with two engines and pressure changes and dinging and PA announcements. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Happy asked.

 

“Overstimulation, one second,” said Mr. Stark, and Peter felt the mask being pulled back over his head. 

 

“Hello, Peter,” Karen’s voice had never been so booming and painful.

 

“Turn it down!”

 

Peter flinched again when someone grabbed his wrist and his opposite shoulder, then guided him back to the stool he’d occupied earlier. He let his arms fold on the bench and buried his head in the crook of his elbow. 

 

“I’m fine,” he said, hoping the image of him in school clothes and his mask, hunched over in a perfectly calm room wouldn’t contradict his statement.

 

“Maybe we should just get him on the plane sooner rather than later, he’ll probably do better at home,” he heard Happy mutter.

 

“You think so? I mean, it’s kind of a long flight if he’s like this, but you’ve got a point. I’ll call May and tell her what’s going on, she’ll kill us both if I don’t. Maybe all three of us. Let’s start moving him toward the plane.”

 

Happy came to Peter’s right side and gently wrapped his hand around the top of Peter’s arm. 

 

“Come on, stand up and we’ll try getting you home, alright?” Happy said quietly.

 

Peter nodded, but soon found that he couldn’t convince himself to go in any direction that might lead to a plane. 

 

_That’s weird,_ he thought. _I was just on a plane. It was fine. Planes are fine. Planes are fine._

 

Peter realized how hard it was to tell himself something other than the truth.

 

_I mean, sure they’re loud, but I’ve got the mask. And as long as the mask doesn’t malfunction…_

 

And that was the last thought Peter remembered having before he found himself laying flat out on the floor of the Stark private lab, Spider-Man mask still on his face but folded up so his mouth was uncovered, staring straight up into the eyes of Mr. Stark.

 

“In, one…two…three…four…out, four…three…two…one.”

 

“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Stark. I’m fine.”

 

“Well, kid, seeing as you couldn’t breathe or sit up on your own a minute ago, I think you have very little room to talk. But now that you can, would you mind explaining to me what the hell is going on?”

 

“I think I just freaked out a little, no big deal.”

 

“No, no. We just shoved a pill down your throat and had to convince your aunt that I wasn’t trying to kill you by giving you a way to deal with bright lights. You were hyperventilating. Your lips turned blue, Peter. If this was such an issue, why didn’t you say something before? Why would you bring it up so casually, months and months after bringing it up the first time? That’s not okay with me.”

 

Peter swallowed hard, afraid to move, afraid to blink, even with the mask on. The red tint still activated by Karen didn’t help the image of Mr. Stark’s angry expression.

 

“I…I’m sorry, I,” Peter was appalled to find that the corners of his mouth were turning down without his permission. His throat was getting tight. His eyes — no! — his eyes were burning. Peter Parker was about to cry in front of Tony Stark. That thought didn’t help.

 

“I didn’t think that,” he took a shuddering breath, “that this would happen, I thought I could handle…” To his horror, a sob interrupted his sentence.

 

“Dammit, Tony, you can’t yell at a kid who just had an anxiety attack!” Peter forgot Happy was there.

 

“I wasn’t yelling!” Mr. Stark yelled.

 

“Shut up, for the love — just, lower your voice,” Happy ordered as he was pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll call May again.”

 

Peter couldn’t stop crying.

 

“What do we do?”

 

“I said I’m calling May!” The whisper-shouting wasn’t much quieter.

 

Peter could hear the ringing from the other end of Happy’s call. 

 

_“Hello?”_

 

“Hi, May, it’s Happy again, we need some help here.”

 

_“Did you give him the pill? I told you he hasn’t had one before. Didn’t I? Is he okay? Did he have a reaction?”_

 

“Um, maybe. He’s…uh…he’s…you know what, I’m gonna give the phone to Peter.”

 

_“…Okay.”_

 

Mr. Stark had pulled Peter up so he was sitting, slouched over and still crying hard. The mask was clinging to his eyes and nose, and Mr. Stark started easing it off. 

 

“Here he is,” said Happy. He held the phone out for Peter, who didn’t seem to notice. He did not like having the mask off, but the air felt cool on his face.

 

Mr. Stark grabbed it and put it on speakerphone, then mouthed “Tissues” to Happy.

 

“Hey, May, it’s Tony. You’re on speaker, Peter’s here.”

 

_“Peter? You ok, honey?”_

 

He didn’t know what to say, and he couldn’t really say anything if he’d wanted to. He was sobbing almost silently, his face contorted and his wrists coming up to wipe his nose on his jacket sleeves every few seconds. He was so mad at himself, _crying_ like a little boy. He couldn’t stand how embarrassed he was, which only made him more upset. 

 

Mr. Stark looked at Peter, hunched in on himself and completely losing it. He slowly reached an arm around Peter’s, drawing him back against his own chest. It felt like that’s what he was supposed to do, but he was pretty sure the stiffness and reluctance in the gesture cancelled out any comfort it may have given the poor kid.

 

Peter didn’t know what to do with that. He figured he couldn’t do much more damage than he already had, so he let himself be pulled back into Mr. Stark’s arms. He reasoned that he obviously wasn’t thinking clearly, but he didn’t really care. He had started hiccuping and was losing his breath again, and still couldn’t stop crying. His sobs were getting louder.

 

May had grown impatient, hung up the phone, and was now trying to video chat. Mr. Stark answered on the first ring.

 

“Hey, here he is,” he said, then positioned the camera far enough away so May could see exactly what was happening. Her hand went to her mouth.

 

_“Peter! Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”_

 

“I think maybe he is having a…reaction, of some sort.” Mr. Stark started talking when Peter didn’t. “I may have lost my temper at him a minute ago, so I don’t know how much of this is because of the meds and how much is because of…me.”

 

_“You WHAT? You got mad at him right after he nearly passed out from anxiety?! You know what,”_ May’s hand was now rubbing her forehead, _“I’ll deal with you later. Can you just try to get him to breathe, please? Keep doing the four-second thing. Do it with him. And put the phone in his hand.”_

 

Happy was back with a box of tissues, which he placed by Peter’s foot and immediately stepped back and perched on the stool.

 

Mr. Stark grabbed a handful of the tissues and tried to shove them into Peter’s hand, but it was balled into a fist. Mr. Stark gently pulled Peter’s fingers back and placed the tissue in before they went back to how they were. He did the same with the other hand and put the phone in that one. Peter moved the tissues to his face and held the phone out with a shaking hand.

 

He looked at May and cried even harder. Tony didn’t know that was possible. 

 

“Hey, hey,” he tried to be heard over the hitches in Peter’s lungs, “listen, it’s ok. I’m sorry, I’m not actually angry with you. I’m not upset, and it’s ok that you asked for help, that’s good. Listen, breathe with me again, yeah? One, two, three, four. I’ll do it with you. Feel my breathing, Peter.”

 

Mr. Stark took deliberate, full breaths, making his ribcage move more than usual so Peter could feel it. He counted to four and back over and over again, whispering it so Peter could just hear him. May was talking to Peter, making him look at her face, and explaining what was happening.

 

“You just took that medication for the first time, sweetie. It says on the bottle that this could happen, it’s alright. No one’s upset with you, Peter. It’s ok. They gave you the pill because you needed it earlier, and I’m very glad you’ve kept it with you.”

 

Mr. Stark kept breathing, May kept talking, and Peter kept crying. It was getting quieter, though.

 

Peter was pretty sure, and so was everyone else, that the mood swings listed on the prescription bottle weren’t meant to describe what was currently happening. The meds were a regulator, an aid to help calm anxiety in bad situations. They weren’t supposed to send him spiraling.

 

Yet, here he was, freshly spiraled. He was still wrapped up against Mr. Stark, whose shirt was now wet with tears and snot. Peter wanted to die.

 

“I think maybe we should keep you here tonight, kid. Happy, wanna arrange a ride for May?”

 

Happy looked glad to have a reason to leave the room.

 

May was still talking non-stop, keeping Peter’s attention. It was definitely helping. 

 

“Looks like I’ll be there soon,” she said, acknowledging Mr. Stark’s background commentary. “It’s going to be fine, Peter. We’ll get this figured out. Keep taking deep breaths.”

 

Peter ran the tissues over his face and was quickly turning to shuddering occasionally rather than sobbing outright. Tears were falling less and less from his eyes, which were looking heavy.

 

Mr. Stark shifted a little bit behind Peter and started to get up. Peter sat up and looked down at his shoes, then immediately moved his head to a more level plane and shoved the tissues against his nose again.

 

“Let’s go find you a couch somewhere, sound good?” Mr. Stark asked. Peter could tell he was trying to diffuse the awkwardness of it all. Now they were moving back into strong mentor/mentee territory, rather than wherever the hell they had just been.

 

Peter stood up, with the help of Mr. Stark pulling him, and agreed. He didn’t turn May, off, though, just lowered her volume.

 

They walked through two of Mr. Stark’s expansive hallways, which required more energy than Peter currently had. Mr. Stark walked very close to him and they made their way slowly, but eventually Peter was sliding down a wall and Mr. Stark had to grab him by the armpits.

 

“Woah, we’re not there yet. Still with me?”

 

Peter made a sound at the back of his throat, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Yeah, great. Let’s keep going a little bit farther. Almost there.”

 

He swung Peter’s left arm over his own shoulder and supported him until they turned into a small lounge with a couch.

 

“Good, I was hoping that would be here.” Mr. Stark saw a half-hearted glare come his way.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Lay down, kid. May’ll be here soon, I’ll hang out until then.”

 

“You don’ have to, Mist’r Stark…”

 

“I will anyway. Go to sleep.”

 

“…mmk.”

 

Mr. Stark grabbed the phone from Peter’s hand before he dropped it in his sleep and shared a concerned and sad look with May. She mouthed “it’ll be ok” before hanging up. He sat down and prepared for a long, long lecture when she arrived.

 


	5. I'm Not OK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, it's been a few days! Thank you guys for your comments and kudos, I'm so touched that you've all been reading my story <3 Before reading this chapter, please know that I am not at all a medical professional haha so I hope this makes sense, I just did some online research and did what I could. I also am aware that therapists and psychiatrists are completely different, but people usually talk about them with interchangeable, if incorrect, terms (at least in my experience).
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Things with Mr. Stark thankfully weren’t too awkward after the meltdown in the lab. Peter had dreaded backlash in the form of having to return his suit until he could get a hold of himself, or even worse, that Mr. Stark would try to avoid conversation since Peter had been crying in his arms like a baby. 

 

Peter’s face reddened in embarrassment every time he thought about it. He was glad that he didn’t remember all the details.

 

But, Mr. Stark had understood. Once May had brought Peter home the next morning and he was getting out of the shower before going to school (he really couldn’t miss many more days), he’d received a text.

 

_Hey, kid. The updates to the suit should be finished, I kept working on it last night._

 

Peter had replied quickly. He tried to sound upbeat.

 

_Thanks, Mr. Stark! I really appreciate all your help…with everything. Sorry for flipping out._

 

The length between his text and a reply prompted Peter to toss his phone on his bed and get dressed to avoid thinking about the silence. It wasn’t until he was brushing his teeth after eating breakfast that he finally got a response. It was long, and Peter feared the worst.

 

_Listen, I want you to pay attention to yourself, got it? I’m not gonna tell you to stop patrolling, that’ll just stress you out, and I know that sometimes it helps when you can…do…things. Something helpful, constructive. I get that. And I’m not about to use what’s been happening against you, I know better than anyone that it takes a while to figure out how to deal with all of this. Hell, I don’t know if I’ve figured it out yet. But I do know what helps. People help. May, what’s-his-name from school, your therapist (who you’d better still be seeing). My point is don’t try to hold things back from people who could give you a hand. Don’t ignore it when things aren’t feeling right. And stop apologizing for not being ok all the time. No one expects you to be. I’m not mad, and I’m glad I was there to help, but we gotta kick this thing so you can keep moving forward. Capisce?_

 

Peter looked in the bathroom mirror after reading the message, toothbrush still in his mouth. He tried not to stare at the dark circles beneath his tired-looking eyes, a result of frequent nightmares, and he sighed before leaning down to spit into the sink. He set his toothbrush in its cup and picked up his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 

_Capisce._

 

And just like that, they were okay. For the next two weeks, Peter texted Happy summaries of his patrols, Happy didn’t respond, and every few days Mr. Stark would send him links to articles about new tech or international affairs or YouTube videos of mixed martial arts to keep Peter up to date.

 

The day after the lab fiasco, May had taken Peter to get new medication. They were sure that the meds were a significant part in Peter’s tearful breakdown (apart from Mr. Stark’s temporary anger and the upset of having a panic attack in front of him and Happy). The new prescription was the third time in a little over a month that Peter’s hormones and brain chemistry were significantly altered, either by trauma or pharmaceuticals. At least that’s what the doctor said. Peter was sure she was just trying to make him feel better.

 

Peter was spending two afternoons a week at his psychiatrist’s, Dr. Prhati, in Manhattan. Aunt May went with him after school, and then they would go out to dinner on the way home. The sessions were exhausting and invasive — two different times, he’d gone over the edge after particularly sensitive topics had been brought up and he’d had smaller-scale anxiety attacks in the office. But May had been there, he always kept his meds with him, and Dr. Prhati talked him through the panic. He could tell he was getting better.

 

Until he wasn’t.

 

Peter knew that his problems were starting to come back after those two weeks. He’d felt his fingers go numb and had stabbing pain in his chest while patrolling one night and barely made it home before he collapsed on the floor on his way to get May. She heard the thump as he landed hard and found him in the hallway, fingers pulling at his own hair, flushed and disoriented. He couldn’t remember what had set him off.

 

He took a pill (one every morning, one more if needed) and May stayed with him the rest of the night. He couldn’t fall asleep for six hours.

 

Two days later, he had a calculus exam. Integration. He didn’t realize that he had zoned out and was furiously tapping his pencil against the desk until the teacher came over to him to take his test and give him detention. Apparently he had been told to be quiet three times. He’d only answered the first question.

 

The next afternoon, Peter and May were on the train to the doctor’s after school. He was telling her about the X-box that Ned had found in a trash pile and all the improvements they were making to the operating system when he saw an article title in a paper another passenger was reading. He just glanced at it, “Bronx Robbery Leads to Deadly Shooting”, and Peter couldn’t seem to pick up his story where he’d left off.

 

“You ok?” May leaned over and asked in a quiet voice, a little confused.

 

Peter didn’t answer her. There were so many sounds all of the sudden — the train running, people shuffling their feet and adjusting their grip on the handles above, a backpack zipper — he threw in his earphones before he could hear anything else and started playing a track of white noise as loud as he could stand to drown everything else out. He wanted his mask so badly he could hardly stand it.When he looked next to him and saw May’s concerned look, he took out one bud and whispered to her.

 

“I, uh, just miss Karen a lot.” He’d filled May in on how the new upgrades to his suit worked. May nodded and rested a hand on his shoulder.

 

Peter hoped he’d be able to calm down and not cause a scene on the train. He refused to look back at the paper, at anything in particular, until they reached their stop. The panic seemed to pass eventually, and they made their way to the office.

 

They were seated in the waiting room for just a few minutes when Peter felt a stinging on his hand. He looked over and realized he was gripping May’s wrist tightly, and May had lightly slapped him. He stared at her, mouth gaping. 

 

“I’m sorry, honey, but you’re hurting me and you weren’t listening. I need you to let go, okay?” She spoke close to his ear so no one else could hear.

 

Peter released her arm immediately and saw that her skin was deep red where his hand had been. It would probably bruise darkly, he realized. He could have broken her wrist, he was certainly strong enough.

 

“May! I’m so so sorry, I didn’t mean —” She placed her other hand on his upper arm and shushed him.

 

“Hey, I know. I know. It’s ok.”

 

“No, it’s not! I,” he looked around at the others in the waiting room and lowered his voice so she could barely hear. “I hurt you, I can see it.”

 

“It’s not that bad, and it was an accident. Please don’t worry about it, alright?”

 

But worry he did. He certainly didn’t remember when or why he had held on to her, and the fact that he was hurting her and had no idea made his blood run cold. He stared at his hands and started hearing only his breathing, loud in his ears.

 

He felt May hold his hand and take him back to a room, and he made eye contact with the receptionist as she held the door open for them and glanced at him curiously. Usually he came back here by himself.

 

When they made it to the room he slumped into a chair while May brought another one beside him and sat; he was vaguely aware that May was asking the receptionist to tell the doctor to come in as soon as possible.

 

For some reason, he found himself very nervous to be in that room any longer, and usually his senses about these things were right.

 

“…No, we need to go home. We have to go home now. We have to go.” Peter tried to get up, but then May was crouched in front of him, hands on his knees. 

 

“No, sweetie, don’t get up. It’s ok, we can stay here for a little bit. Take a breath.”

 

Peter shook his head. If he stayed here, then he wouldn’t be home, and he needed to be home. He couldn’t hurt people at home. People don’t get hurt at home. They had to go home.

 

He didn’t realize he’d said all that out loud, but then Dr. Prhati was sitting next to him and telling him that her office was another place where people don’t get hurt. Dr. Prhati was lying, he was sure. He looked to May, who nodded in agreement with the doctor. May didn’t lie, not to him. He groaned and buried his face in his hands, leaning back.

 

There was a steady hand on his shoulder and someone was telling him…things. He didn’t know what. But whatever they were saying and whoever was saying it was soft and rhythmic and he let himself focus on that. When he put his hands down on his lap, he saw that it was still Dr. Prhati next to him. She stopped speaking.

 

“Alright?” She asked. Peter nodded, embarrassed. May was still crouched in front of him.

 

“May, why don’t you sit here,” she said, getting up, “and I’ll pull up another chair. Peter, I’m going to ask May a few things for now, and you’re more than welcome to join the conversation if you’d like, but you don’t have to.”

 

Peter took the opportunity to gather his thoughts as they discussed him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

 

“Yes,” May said. Peter realized there must have been a question he missed. She continued. 

 

“There have been three times, counting this just now — which had a couple segments, actually — in the past few days. Once when he was out, um, working,” Dr. Prhati nodded, knowing full well of Peter’s secret identity, “and once at school, which ended up in a detention and a failing test grade. And there have been a lot of times in the past three or four days where he just sort of, how do I put this? Falls of the face of the earth? He’s been zoning out, even without any nervous reaction or panic or anything, and I can’t get his attention. I don’t think he knows when that happens,” she finished, looking over at Peter. “Do you?”

 

He looked back at her, then at Dr. Prhati. “No, I didn’t know about that,” he muttered. May reached over and rubbed his back comfortingly.

 

After a few more questions, Dr. Prhati took a moment to write in Peter’s file and then looked back at them both.

 

“I think,” she said slowly, “that I might now what’s going on here, Peter. I think you’ve developed a tolerance for your medication. Because of your…abilities, you’ve adapted quickly to the dosage you’ve been having with these pills. Usually it takes a person months to develop this sort of tolerance, if they do at all, but I’m positive that’s what has happened here. All of the behaviors and symptoms are indicative, just sped up.”

 

She folded Peter's file closed and crossed one leg over the other before she continued.

 

“So, this means that you aren’t getting the same benefits from your medication that you had two weeks ago. In fact, I’m not sure you’re getting any benefits at all, and maybe even strange side effects because of it. That’s where some of that memory loss and spacing out could come in. The issue is, I’m not sure how much higher a dosage would be safe. Since you’re the only one I know of who’s ever been in this particular situation, it’s a tough call to make. Even if a higher dosage was fine, you would most likely develop a tolerance for that in no time, too.”

 

“What do you suggest we do, then?” May asked, her head tilted to the side in question.

 

The doctor pursed her lips and thought in silence for a moment, then sighed. Peter watched tiredly from his chair.

 

“Well, the main goal here, at the bare minimum, is to keep you at least functional enough for every day life and responsibilities. That’s not happening right now. So I think we can up the dosage for a week and see how that goes. The side effects, the loss of focus, I’m hoping that’s only related to the issues of only having maybe the residual bits of the medication actually get through, and not the full and intended effects. We might be able to work out a system of increasing and decreasing the dosages week by week — that might be too hectic, though. We’ll have to see. For now, that’s the best solution I can think of. I’ll be working very hard to find something better, though, trust me.”

 

She wrote out a new prescription and handed it to May before they left. They had decided Peter was better off not dealing with therapy today. He didn’t pay attention to their journey home, and didn’t even realize they hadn’t stopped for dinner until he and May were walking down the hallway to their front door.

 

“What are we gonna eat, May? I’m pretty hungry.”

 

She turned around and looked at him, and Peter realized she was holding a bag of takeout in her hand.

 

“You don’t remember that we got this?” She looked concerned, but tried to play it off as she unlocked the door.

 

“…Guess not,” Peter mumbled. It was starting to freak him out, now that he knew what May had mentioned in the office. “What did we get?”

 

“Spanish rice and some chicken. Come here, let’s get this second dose in you now, ok? It’s supposed to be every twelve hours, so this is a good time.”

 

Dinner started off unnaturally silent. They were both deep in thought. Peter kept glancing at May’s wrist, which was already starting to change colors. She jumped in surprise when he leapt up from the table without warning and came back with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel. He handed it to her, still silent, and sat back down to keep eating.

 

“So this X-box,” he said, not looking up from his plate.

 

“Oh, right, the X-box. What else did you do to it?”

 

Peter swallowed hard before answering. May’s immediate answer, her willingness to let him just _not think about it right now_ and her genuine interest in his geeky hobbies made him feel so calm so quickly, he needed a second to appreciate it. 

 

“Ya, we totally revamped it. It’s gonna be awesome to play, it’s so close to running. And Mr. Leeds has some cans of this metallic spray paint that he let Ned use so I can’t wait to see it tomorrow. Oh, can Ned come over tomorrow?”

 

May nodded, Peter kept talking, and New York missed Spider-Man for the rest of the night.


End file.
